His way
by Suz2
Summary: Invisible Man: May push NC17...Bobby spends the evening after New Stuff brooding on life liberty and the pursuit of happiness. Then goes off to find his partner. Sequel to 'Coconuts', 'My Way', 'Count on It'


The

Invisible Man

"His Way"

(Aftermath of New Stuff missing scenes and tag)

- I will stand inside my private hell 

and take the hand I'm dealt

Just to reach you.

I don't care what they think

I don't care what they say

What do they know about this love, anyway?

Come to my window.

I'm comin' home

Come to my window

Melissa Etheridge 

**********

"C'mon, princess, your carriage awaits," he says as he steadies Claire and walks her across the sticky floor to the door and the waiting cab. I watch them pick their way through dried puddles of beer, crushed peanuts and god knows what-all. We're practically the only people here, so it's a straight shot, unlike some nights when I hit this place after work. It's a little rougher than the sorta places we usually go together, a hangout for tough-guys from all walks of life. Almost no yuppie executives with their thousand-dollar suits and their laptops ever wander in here, which is just fine by me. The usual crowd is teamsters, construction guys, the salt-of-the-earth types. Oh, and their by-the-hour ladies. It isn't the kinda place you bring a girlfriend, either, which makes me wonder why I suggested the place to Claire, except that it's a cheap place to get drunk. I try not to look too closely at why I've never taken Fawkes here before. It just never occurred to me, I tell myself. Not the place for prettyboys like him. He'd probably manage to pick a fight with a three-hundred-pound iron-worker and end up being used to mop the crud off the floor.

I can't quite manage to get comfortable at the bar. Usually when the evening crowds are packed in like sardines, it's not an issue. But all the open space around me is making me edgy for some reason. I pick up my scotch, and Fawkes', and move to a back corner booth, somewhere I don't have to watch my back, and wait for my partner to come back in. I'm distracted from my thoughts as Fawkes saunters on in the door again, pocketing Claire's keys, and I raise an arm, which he doesn't see in the gloom. I watch him peer around, forehead furrowed, obviously wondering where the hell I've gone. He scowls when he spots me and makes his way across the bar to my dark corner, sliding into the booth before picking up his drink and taking a healthy swig.

"She all safe and sound?" I ask gruffly. I can just see him walking her to the door and not waiting to see that she got in the cab. "You make sure the driver's gonna take care of her? She's pretty plastered, so if anything happens to her ...," I pause and he glowers at me, waiting for me to threaten him with bodily harm or something.

Eventually, he shrugs sullenly. "I gave the cabby an extra five to make sure she got inside okay," he says, as if it bugs him to admit he's catering to my little paranoid ways.

It pisses me off. Actually, everything is pissing me off right now. I still can't believe they didn't let me know what they were plannin' on in the Fat Man's office this afternoon. Claire askin' for a raise and all, and not lettin' me in on it? I mean, how LONG have I been bitching about not gettin' the raise they promised me three years ago? Crap. I turn my glass in my hands and stare into the amber liquid, watching the shadows and highlights flash through it.

"Look, Hobbes," Fawkes starts after a long silence. "You don't need to worry. I'm not gonna try anything funny, you know, like violating your honor or anything" he trails off, embarrassed.

I laugh sharply as I take a swig of my scotch to cover the shiver of anxiety his comment triggers. "I'd like to see you try," I mutter sarcastically into the glass, hoping he doesn't see through the bluster. Because the reality is, I'm not exactly sure how I feel about all this. Him and me, I mean. Talk about conflicted. It's been a long time since my wild days, the days I'd screw just about anything that moved, and the idea of changing teams midstream like this gives me the shakes. But so did that kiss. Man. It's been forever since a kiss got me that hot. Has a kiss _ever_ gotten me that hot before?

"You're the one who made up the rules, Hobbes. You told me not to come back just because of you. So I didn't," he snaps at me, and I raise my head to stare at him, the amber light filtering in the windows casting his face in shades gold and steel, where the fine bones jut against smooth skin.

"So why _did_ you come back?" I ask bitterly. "And why the hell didn't you warn me?" I slam the palm of my hand onto the table top, making the glassware jump and a nearby patron moves further away from the dark cloud of my temper, into the residual daylight still coming in through the front windows with their original seventies textured amber glass.

"Warn you?" he answers disbelievingly. "You're the one who told me if I came back it had to be my choice, my reasons, and that I couldn't use you as an excuse. You can't have it both ways, pal!" 

I glare at Fawkes warningly, but he's getting up a head of steam. 

"You're the one who said all he was to me was some easy lay, some excuse to get my rocks off without breaking any of the stupid Agency rules about 'need to know'!" He gulps the last of his scotch and maybe it's a trick of the yellow light, but his eyes flash with something that looks like pain. Damn. Now I've hurt the kid, feelin' sorry for myself and taking it out on him.

"That's not exactly what I said," I answer, frowning 

"Yeah, well, close enough," he snarls, refusing to look at me. "I just wanna make it clear, here, that I can be a professional about this. I'm not gonna let what I feel keep me from doing the damned job, okay?" he insists self-righteously, finally glaring at me.

The flash of regret I had evaporates as his usual self-pity kicks in. "Yeah, right. And I'm the pope." I mumble sarcastically. "Look, kid, you've never been able to keep what you feel separate from anything, especially the work. You really expect me to believe you're gonna start now? After the way you came on to me last night?" I demand, rubbing his nose in the fact that he was the one who started it all, half afraid he'll try to pick up where he left off later on down the line - and afraid he _won't_. Shit. Shit-shit-shit.

He stares at me, and now there's no mistake. Pain, then anger, flash in his eyes. Damn, he can't hide anything. He's as transparent as a window, this kid. I get involved with him and it'd be like putting up a billboard: "Darien Fawkes is gettin' some."

"Yeah. I do. You may find this hard to believe, 'partner', but I've never gone after someone who doesn't want me. Not when they've made it as clear as you have, okay? So if you can't move past it, can't lighten up on me for telling you what you mean to me, then maybe now's the time to say so. Because if we're gonna work together like we did before, both of us are gonna have to get over last night. All I'm sayin' is, I have. I've moved on. You don't want what I want? Fine. Not the end of the world. You can't work with me cuz of it? Fine. But let me know now." He hesitates, as if expecting me to jump in with some kind of rebuttal or something. "It looks to me like it's your turn to decide what you're getting by stayin' with the Agency. And what you're not." His voice is low, but the anger in it could carry to the top of Everest. 

I take a quick look around to make sure no one is close enough to get more than the hostile vibe comin' offa him. "Keep it down, will ya?" I shush him. "This isn't the place!"

"Well, this is where we _are_, pal. And for your information, I AM keeping it down. What, you're embarrassed to be seen with me all of a sudden? Don't want the world to know that the big, bad Bobby Hobbes has a partner who's in love with him? Fine. Excuse the hell outta me. I didn't know it was an issue of national security. From now on, I'll make sure to keep it under my hat," he hisses at me and slides out of the booth, leaving me staring after him, feeling as though an iceberg just landed in the pit of my stomach.

***********

I've been sittin' here for almost three hours, watchin' the working stiffs trickle in, first a little at the time, then in groups of five, ten, maybe more. The thing that's kept running through my head is the look on Fawkes' face as he left. Humiliated. Like it absolutely killed him to think that bein' with him embarrassed me. I've been askin' myself, with every scotch I've drunk, if he's right; am I embarrassed to be seen with Darien Fawkes? 'Hell, no' is the answer that keeps jumping into my head, but the gnawing little ache in my guts tells me I'm doin' the denial thing, as my therapist'd say.

I keep circling around it, picking at it like a scab, knowing it'll probably hurt like hell if I rip it off and really look at it, but unable to keep from obsessing on that question. Does bein' with Fawkes - a guy - embarrass me? I guess it boils down to _how_ I'm with him Partners, no problem. Lovers? That's the big unknown. I watch the grubby working-class guys yukking it up around the bar, their cut-rate 'dates' soaking up as much beer as they can con the guys out of. Macho. Manly. And probably homophobes. Beer bellies, filthy plaid and denim, christ. The sorta guys I hung out with in the Marines, the CIA, the FBI. I swear, sometimes I think we're all clones of each other.

So along comes Darien Fawkes. One of a kind. Whiney. Self-absorbed. And sarcastic, witty, charming, a decent guy. An innocent in a lot of ways. And despite the self-involvement, one of the most gentle and generous people I've ever met. He starts caring about someone, he'd give 'em the shirt off his back, his last dime, even his life. It's one thing for someone like me, a trained Agent, to be ready to risk my life for another Agent. It's another for someone like Fawkes, who's basically a punk kid who's had more than his share of bad breaks, to do it. But no training, no nothing, he got himself stuck in the middle of a government science project in the starring role of lab rat. And he hasn't stopped bitching about it the whole time I've known him. He also hasn't stopped trying to be my friend since we got over the initial Mexican stand-off we had goin'. At first he was an assignment. But it didn't take me long to figure out that behind the complaining was a scared kid, just trying to do his best.

What gets me, I guess, is that his best is a hell of a lot better'n most. He may have been a crappy thief, but he's one hell of an Agent. 

It wasn't that he couldn't pull off a successful job, but the key to planning and execution for a thief is that ruthlessness that lets them do what it takes. He ain't got that. Never has, from what I can tell. He's got the conscience of a bleeding heart. Nothing in his record says thug. He made a point of staying away from armed assault of any kind. See, that's the gap I spotted, first off. The gap between attitude and conscience. He can think like a thief, he just can't take that last step and act like one. I mean _really_ act like one. But that's what makes him one hell of an investigator. That knack for looking at all the angles. For thinking on his feet. It gave me something to work with.

None of which tells me what to do about the fact that he kissed me last night, though. And I kissed him back.

And liked it.

Hell.

__

Loved it, would be more like. My stomach does the anxiety flip-flop it's been doing all evening since Fawkes stormed out of here, and I swallow some more scotch, hoping to numb the tension to a bearable level. 

Did kissing Fawkes embarrass me?

It didn't then, not with his brown eyes all wide and startled and trusting staring into mine, not with the heat of his body against mine, the feel of his skin under my hands, the taste of him in my mouth. Not with the raging, aching need to be touched like that, touched the way he was asking to touch me, burning along every nerve, making every muscle tremble. Not with my dick harder than it's been in years pressed up against his face. Jesus, I'm getting hard again just thinking about it. Un-friggin'-believable.

But here, _here_ I'm embarrassed Sitting here in a bar full of your average macho jerks, I'm embarrassed. So why the hell am I here? Why the hell did I ever bring Fawkes to a place like this? Or Claire, for that matter?

I've spent way too many hours on psychiatrists' couches, spent way too much time second guessing why I do things, not to be able to figure this one out, eventually. I sit there and watch the testosterone parade passing through Herb's on your average Friday night, and it hits me like a nine millimeter slug; I brought 'em here to prove something. To prove that this is the kinda place I'm at home in, the kinda guys I'm comfortable with. Not with a too-bright, too-observant, too-gentle guy like Fawkes.

Only right now, I don't have any more in common with these guys then I would with a herd of wild pigs, snorting and grubbing and pawing at the ladies in their war paint and too-tight dresses, lookin' for the casual grope, the fast, impersonal fuck. To meet the need, but not make the emotional connection.

Is that what's scaring me? That emotional connection? I mean, I know I warned Fawkes what I was like when I start to get really serious about someone, and he knows about Viv. Hell, he's even met her. And he didn't run screaming in the other direction. But he doesn't know how bad I can get, even though Viv tried to tell him. 

I swallow another mouthful of alcohol. 

So what, exactly, is the difference between what I felt for her, and what I feel for him? What's the difference between a wife and a partner? Sometimes, it doesn't seem like much at all 

Partner. It's a word that's come to define me and the way I work. One that's meant the difference between stayin' alive, and buying it out in the field in some covert action no one would ever admit to sendin' me on. See I was never cocky enough to think that I could automatically pull off whatever the job was all on my own. My years as a Marine taught me that. Teamwork. Bein' part of something larger than myself. Those are the things that 'partner' means to me. That and the fact that there's someone who'll be there for me, however I need them to be. It's kinda weird to think that Fawkes is probably the first partner I've had who felt the same way about it I do. Yeah, he gives me shit, yeah, he's a pain in the butt, sometimes, but lately, he's been pretty good about not letting me down. Not like the first year we worked together. At least not until the thing with the FBI a couple of weeks ago. And I can see why he did what he did. I'm okay with it, I guess. 

When we were still new with each other, him acting out against all the rules the Fat Man wanted to strangle him with, he disappointed me in little ways. Goin' back to that thief partner of his, Liz Morgan. Now that was a disappointment, let me tell ya. But the Agency and me're the ones he came home to again, not his thiefy pal. Well, okay, maybe not me, but I think I had something to do with it, maybe. I don't think I'll ever forget the look in his eyes when he told us what he'd done. He kinda focused on me, sitting there in the administering chair in handcuffs, like it was the most important thing in the world for me to believe him, to trust him to be tellin' the truth about the FBI's protected witness. The one he'd just stolen the witness protection file for and handed over to Johnny 'Books' Castagnacci. Well, Liz had handed it over. Fucked the guy's cover. He knew I'd be able to protect the guy, or at least give him a fighting chance. So he latched onto me with those big brown eyes and just pleaded with me to clean up the mess he'd made.

What's weird is, it's never bothered me with him, the way it has with some of my partners, when they came to me whinin' at me to bail 'em outta some jam. Maybe because with Fawkes, it's not himself he's lookin' to bail out, it's whoever he's accidentally gotten into the jam with him. He wasn't looking to me to forgive him, that time with Castagnacci, he was lookin' to me to _believe_ him. Even then, even against my better judgment, I was starting to see a trend in the kid. He might mess up, sometimes royally, and he might even do a lotta whinin' about it. But if someone is in trouble because of it, he always makes sure he does his best to clean it up. Make it right. And maybe that's why I started trusting him the way I do. Because in spite of the punk act, in spite of the criminal background, he's still got a conscience.

But the thing with Claire and her raise today. Dammit. He didn't even bother to include me in on the deal. Okay, so I know it's sorta my own fault, what with telling him not to let some fantasy about us bein' together the way he wanted be the only reason for him to come back. The problem is, the ache in my chest tells me I lied. Not just to Fawkes, but to myself. Because for me, Fawkes is everything I want in a partner; decent, gutsy, bright, good sense of humor, a mind reader, sometimes. Knows when to listen to me, knows when I'm outta my depth and when to bring in back-up. I can trust him. With my life. With more than that.

Sittin' here, staring across the crowded room into the smudgy mirror behind the bar at the reflection of the shadowy corner I've been lurking in pretty much unseen for the past three hours, the reality of it starts breaking out of the terrified little part of my heart that knew what it wanted a long time ago. What's really killin' me about what happened last night is that I'd never figured on him doin' what I told him. 

Hellova time for him to start, huh? 

No. I'd been counting on him getting as far as the lobby of my building before getting himself worked into one of his drama queen moods and come storming back upstairs to finish what he'd started. You got any idea how weird it is to be sittin' here, realizing all of a sudden that you'd been offered something on a silver platter you hadn't even known you'd wanted, and you'd screwed up and sent it back where it came from? The problem is, that want was buried so deep, I didn't even know it was there until Fawkes told me how he felt. And then I freaked out on him.

But the thing is, it's not me I was worried about. I really didn't want the kid coming back to the Agency unless he was sure that was where he wanted to be. But to be sitting here, hurting like I did the day Viv walked out on me because he took me at my word? How stupid - how _pathetic_ - is that? I'm such a closet romantic that I really figured he'd refuse to take no for an answer? That he would tell me the hell with what I said I wanted, what I told him? That no matter what I said, he was coming back with me? _For_ me?

Shit.

  
Fawkes was right. I wanted it both ways. I wanted to maintain the distance. And I wanted him to close it. Stupid, pathetic piece'a work that I am, I wanted to know there was someone out there who wanted me bad enough to stand up to me. And when I got it, I kicked his legs out from under him. I wanted him to come storming back and take what he claimed he wanted. Instead, he respected me enough to do what I'd asked. He went and thought about it. Decided there was more reason than just me to come back to the Agency. Bein' jealous of whatever those reasons were is friggin' _sad_. Pointless. And it hurts like hell.

And now I'm sitting here licking the wounds I made him inflict on me. I shoulda said yes. Shoulda let him take me to bed right then and there. The hell with the fishing off the company pier thing. The hell with what the Agency would say. Regret like lead weights in my belly makes me realize I've had a whole lot more to drink than is good for me. Sitting here brooding over the whole thing, kicking myself for being a schmuck, is getting me nowhere except deeper into a depression.

__

So what the hell are you gonna do about it, Hobbes? I ask myself, downing the last of the scotch in my glass. Be a man about it. Find Fawkes. Tell him he was right. That alone'd be enough to get him to listen to me while I apologize for being such a jerk. Try to make him understand why. By now, he's probably back at his place. I drop a couple of twenties on the table and move out, sliding between the grimy working guys as though they weren't there. 

Fortunately, years in the spy biz've given me one hell of a tolerance for booze, so even though I'm legally drunk, no cop would ever stop me for erratic driving. And lucky for me, Fawkes' place isn't that far away from Herb's, and it's not late enough yet for the local uniforms to be out cruising for DUIs. I park across the street from his building and check it out. Lights off, car still in its place along the curb, tell me he's either in bed asleep, or he's not home yet. I sit there debating which it is for about half an hour, then decide to go find out, letting myself into his building with my key and walking up the three flights to his floor. I unlock his apartment, standing in the doorway just listening. My training tells me the place is empty, but I switch on the lights and take a look around just to make sure. 

No sign of the punk. So if he's not home yet, that means he's gotta be at Claire's. Anxiety is back doin' its tap dance in my guts and I detour to Darien's bathroom to find some antacid, taking a healthy swig of Maalox and rinsing my mouth out before I leave, locking up behind me, shaking my head at the clutter of hair care junk on his sink. Well, I guess if you got it, you gotta flaunt it. I envy him that head of hair, that's for sure.

The drive to Claire's house only takes about ten minutes, and I park in the parking lot in front of her townhouse, glancing at the lights blazing from the front windows. Wonder what sort of strategies they're cooking up without me? Not to mention what _else_ they might be cookin' up between them. I shake myself out of the self pity Usually, that's Fawkes' shtick. I get out of the van, walking towards her front steps. 

I hesitate as I reach the front door, trying not to let the anxiety win out and make me bolt before I've gotten what I came here for. I glance in the front window to the left of her door and see Fawkes' spiky head over the top of the couch's backrest in the distant family room at the end of the hall.

No sign of Claire. I wonder where the hell she is, leaving the kid all on his own to brood like he does. Then suddenly, his head drops back onto the backrest of the sofa with a little jerk, which is when I realize he's asleep. I grin as I pick the lock easily enough and step inside, Pavlov there to greet me silently, tail wagging, tongue lolling. I give the mutt a scratch behind the ears. "So where's your mom, huh, pup?" I ask him quietly as I straighten. He cocks an ear at me and gives me another doggy grin, trotting off in the direction of the couch in the family room off Claire's kitchen. I've only been in the house a couple of times, so I glance around, taking in the plants, the white-on-white décor that somehow doesn't strike me as Claire's style at all. It's all perfect, pristine, cold. And Claire ain't cold, even if I thought so at first. Her ice princess routine is an act. At least most of the time, anyway. I've tried calling in favors to find out a little more about the Keepy, but without a last name, or even a birthdate, research like that gets a lot harder. Still, I'm gonna find out eventually, so why she just doesn't come clean, I don't know. I keep meaning to get around to checking out the fact she let slip when she told me she and Kevin had in grad school together. Darien, under the influence of Kevin's mRNA made it sound like they'd been a thing. She says it was at Cal Tech. So somewhere there has to be a professor who remembers a pretty, blonde, brilliant British co-ed in love with Kevin Fawkes, the genius. 

The soft thick whiteness of the carpet underfoot means that my entrance is silent, not that it matters, since Fawkes is slumped in the couch with his head tilted back, snoring quietly, the long line of his throat painfully, vulnerably exposed. His hair looks even more like bed-hair than usual, a smile creeping over my mouth as I walk into the room and near the back of the couch. I don't know what it is about him. He always manages to look relaxed no matter where he is. I know it's an act a lot of the time, but that boneless grace of his, along with the punk attitude sparkling in his eyes, always gives him a look like he's master of the situation and all the rest of us gotta do is cop to it and let him get on with things. I can't help the little smile that creeps over my face as I close the last few feet to stand behind the sofa. But it fades as I look over his shoulder to see Claire asleep in his lap. 

Damn. What the hell is she doing, face tucked into his groin like that? Jealousy stabs through my chest like acid, and it takes me a minute to figure out if it's him or her that I'm jealous of. The truth is, I guess it's a little of both. Fuck.

I hesitate, torn between waking them up and the overwhelming need to cut my losses, go somewhere to lick my wounds in peace. "Shit," I whisper under my breath.

And the decision gets taken out of my hands as Fawkes stirs, opening his eyes sleepily and blinking up at me, this tiny little smile, all shy and hesitant curving his mouth. A mouth I want to taste again, dammit. "Hi," he mumbles, rubbing the heels of his hands into his eyes to try and wake up. "How'd you get in?" he asks absently, running the fingers of one hand through his hair, spiking it up again.

"You're not the only one who knows how to handle a lock pick," I inform him sarcastically. "This place is wide open from a security standpoint. You know how many times I've tried to tell Claire she needs to upgrade?" I try to keep it quiet, try not to disturb Claire, but it's her turn to wake up, and she stretches, looking up at me with a little smile. I can see she's still smashed, her eyes heavy-lidded and sleepy, but they're also clearly amused.

"Well it's about time you got here," she announces as she sits up, only to nearly fall off the couch. She sways, giggling, as Fawkes steadies her, and leans her up against his side, curving an arm over her shoulders. "Mmmmm," she comments, snuggling into him for a second before sitting up straight so she can look over his shoulder at me. "Are you taking him home? Because I really think you should. He's had too much to drink," she giggles again. "So have I. And it is definitely past my bed time," she yawns, confirming that statement.

"You tryin' to get rid of me, Keepy?" Fawkes asks her, amused. He's nowhere near as drunk as she is, but he's sure not sober. But then, neither am I, technically.

She giggles again, and turns her head to kiss him on the jaw. "Of course not, Darien. But I know when I'd better call it a night. I think I've had enough excitement for one day." 

That battery acid burn slashes through my chest again, and my fists clench. I have to make a real effort to relax my hands and I take a deep breath, counting to ten before I open my mouth. I'm jealous And in spite of two years of flirtation with Claire, it's not her I want right here, right now. I came here to try to find out what it is me and Fawkes have between us, and whether it's worth breaking one of my cardinal rules about mixing my work life and my personal life. And if it's worth tossing away every preconceived notion I ever had about 'happily ever after' to jump off a cliff with my partner. My oh-so-sexy partner who doesn't have a clue what he does to me when he looks the way he does right now. Sleepy, warm, relaxed, none of the sarcastic punk attitude anywhere in sight at the moment.

"Boy, and I thought _my_ life was boring," Fawkes chuckles softly as he drops his arm off her shoulders and kisses her quickly on the cheek. "A few hours at a bar and you're ready to call it a night, huh? You're such a party animal, Keepy. I'll call you later, okay?" he says, and the odd little note in his voice gets my radar going again. More secrets? Fuck. Fuck-fuck-_fuck_. What the hell are they up to, these two? 

Maybe Fawkes is writing me off, and setting his cap for his Keeper? Jealousy has taken up permanent residence in my belly with a slow burn like an ulcer. "You still want a ride home, or are you gonna camp out here?" I ask, knowing my voice is as sharp as daggers, but I can't help it. Claire misses it, in her wooly alcohol haze, but Fawkes glances up at me, startled, eyes widening, then narrowing again in speculation. He stands, a little awkward in his hurry.

"No, I'm ready. Just hold your horses, Hobbes," he assures me quickly, then looks back down at Claire. "You need a hand getting upstairs?" he asks, and shame heats my blood the way jealousy heats my gut. He's right to worry. God knows how much Claire's had to drink beside what I saw her swallow at Herb's. There're two empty wine bottles on her coffee table, and she probably did her part in draining them. She'll never get upstairs on her own without killing herself on the stairs.

"Pshaw," she snorts, grinning. "I have no intention of going upstairs. I am wa-a-a-ay too drunk. It's the couch for me, tonight. Now. Darien. Remember what I told you. And I want you to call me as soon as you know, because if you don't get anywhere, then I'm going to give it a go," she remarks with that loopy drunk grin that is actually starting to grow on me. Or it would, if what she was sayin' was makin' any sense.

To my amazement, Fawkes blushes furiously, ducking his head in mortification. "Claire," he hisses in embarrassment, "would you just shush?" he begs, glancing my way. "I promise, You'll be the first to know, okay? Happy now?" he mutters, snatching an afghan from the back of the overstuffed chair at the end of the couch and handing it to her.

"Oh, not the _first_, I should think," she giggles, her expression impish as she pulls the blanket up over her legs and lies down, grinning up at us. "I think someone else will have that pleasure," she adds smugly, and Fawkes goes magenta.

"Good night, Keep," he says, grabbing me by the elbow and hustling me outta there.

"What the -" I start, trying to jerk free irritably.

"Good night, Darien, Good night, Bobby Sleep well," she snickers again, "Supposing either of you get any. Sleep, that is," she concludes and Fawkes opens the door and practically shoves me down the front steps, slamming the door behind us on Claire's giggles.

"What the hell was that all about?" I ask, even though I'm starting to get an idea. It's one that dulls the fire in my guts better than the slug of Maalox I swallowed at Fawkes' place twenty minutes ago.

"Nothing," Darien mutters, shuffling along the brick path at warp speed. With his long legs, I practically have to jog to keep up with him.

"Didn't sound like nothin' to me," I comment, glad his back is to me so he can't see the grin I'm trying to squelch. 

"Can we just drop it, huh?" he complains irritably as he walks around the front of the van and waits beside the passenger side door while I unlock Golda and climb in, reaching over to unlock his door. 

"All I said was, it didn't sound like nothin'," I start in on him again. It's usually the other way around, the teasing thing, and it's hard to embarrass him, unless we're talking sex, the way he can me, the punk, so it's entertaining to watch him be the one who's uncomfortable for a change. "Claire sounded like she had something specific in mind," I goad him a little, and grin to myself as he flushes again. "What did she mean when she said she'd give it a go if you didn't?" I ask innocently.

"Crap," he mutters under his breath. "You're not gonna let go of this, are you?" he asks me, turning to face me, wedging himself into the corner of the seat against the door. 

He looks flustered and a little trapped, tucked into the corner like that, and I lighten up. "Look, Fawkes, you don't wanna talk about it? We don't gotta talk about it, okay? I just thought maybe you were gonna let me in on whatever it is you and the Keepy have planned. But you don't wanna? Fine. I guess I'll hear about it when you're ready," I tell him with a shrug.

"It's not like that, Hobbes, dammit," he says, frustrated. "Crap." He looks away, out the windshield, as if the night-dark streets were the real issue. "I told Claire about last night," he says at last, still not looking at me.

I nod to myself. Well, that wasn't any big surprise, I guess. "Last night," I repeat, slowly. It's weird, kinda; I would've figured, what with having a thing for the Keeper for the last year and a half, hearing that my partner spilled his guts to her about the pass he made at me last night should've pissed me off, made me embarrassed at Claire's knowing. Something. Instead, I'm sitting here with this little warm glow in the pit of my stomach that's a whole lot friendlier than the jealousy sizzling there fifteen minutes ago. 

"I'm sorry, man. I know I know you love her, I know she's the one you want, not me. But she didn't She Dammit," he trails off, blushing again, and the warmth in my belly is snuffed out in the cold winds of reality. I never figured Claire'd actually want me, so it's not like I'm surprised. Why it hurts, especially when I'm not sure anymore if I even want her the way I thought I did, I can't say.

"She what?" I ask flatly. "Doesn't want me? It's not a news flash, partner. You think I don't know I'm the Agency joke?" I snap at him.

His head comes up, startled, wide-eyed. "No! Hobbes, she never said that! Never! I think If it weren't for me, she'd have talked you into breaking that stupid 'no fishing' rule of yours a while ago," he says hurriedly, trying to clarify. "She It's just that she figured out something a while ago I only just figured out myself; I want you. I know you don't wanna hear it, but I love you. She knows that, and says she has for a while, now. She told me to make a play for you, or she _would_, okay? That's what she was talking about when she sent us packing, alright?" his voice is strangled-sounding, and I realize he's already decided I'm not gonna be choosing him, so he's making sure I get a shot at the thing he knows I've wanted for a long time now. It's not like I've ever really talked to him about what I feel for Claire, but he knows me well enough to be able to tell I've had a major crush on her. And he's doing what he thinks'll make me happy, stepping back and clearing the way so I can have Claire if I want her.

Only I'm not sure I do, after all. Weird. To have a chance to get what I wanted? To find out maybe Claire really does have a little affection for me? And then to see the strained look around Fawkes' eyes as he stares at me, those baby browns of his big and sad and scared-looking, and know that what I want is sitting right here beside me? Tell me that the gods aren't laughing. "She said that?" I ask quietly, a little nervously, not sure I really want to know.

"What, that she'd go after you if I didn't? Yeah, she said that," he sighs, looking away again, eyes suspiciously brilliant. He takes a shaky breath. "So drop me off and go get her, tiger," he says sadly.

"I don't think so, Fawkes. Not until I'm clear on what it is that's goin' on here," I disagree.

"Nothin's 'goin' on here', Hobbes," he answers shortly, then shakes his head a little. "You want Claire, she wants you. No big mystery, right?"

"What about what you want?" I ask softly, glancing at him quickly.

He shrugs slightly. "What does it matter?" he asks, and for a minute, the self-pity in the words pisses me off. Until I realize there's none of the usual martyred tone in his voice that generally goes with this kind of speech from him. I stare at him for a long second, only the warning blare of a car horn reminding me to pay attention to what I'm doing. He's serious. He seriously doesn't think what he wants matters. I just don't know who he thinks it doesn't matter _to_ - himself? Or the rest of us?

"I want my partner to be happy. That a crime?" he inquires, a little self-mockery coloring the words. "Cuz I've sure committed my share," he adds, sarcastically. Then the attitude fades and the sadness is back. "You made it pretty clear being with me, like that, wasn't gonna do it for you, so why should I have a problem with you bein' with someone who _will_ do it for you?" He's still staring out the window at the midnight streets, not looking at me.

"Fawkes," I try. 

He ignores me.

"Fawkes, dammit," I curse at him, angry, at him, at myself, at Claire. What a freaking mess.

Still no response from him, just that stare out the window that tells me he's checked out on this particular topic of conversation. 

Every bit as frustrated as he is, I make up my mind that this has gone far enough. We're not goin' anywhere until we've straightened a few things out. I yank the wheel over hard and slide up to the curb in front of a fire hydrant with a screech of tires. I set the emergency break and unfasten my seatbelt in the split second it takes him to come out of his fugue state.

"Hobbes, what're you doin'? Where the hell are we?" he asks, startled.

"Clearin' up a misunderstanding," I tell him and launch myself towards him at the opposite end of the long bench seat. I get one knee up against his thigh and brace myself with my other foot on the floor, practically sitting on his lap, then grab him by the shoulders and drag him close, kissing him hard on the mouth. His startled gasp allows me inside and I run my tongue along his, worming my way deeper than I've been before. Damn, but he tastes good. Like red wine. And like himself. Darien.

I've obviously caught him totally by surprise, 'cuz it takes a second before he relaxes and starts kissing me back, but when he does, it's frantic, little whimpers that make me believe everything he said about wanting me. His hands are slipping up under my shirt and he strokes my back eagerly, moaning as I break away from his mouth and start kissing my way down his neck, nipping, licking, sucking smooth skin between my lips and caressing it with my tongue as I graze him with my teeth. He's gonna have a row of hickies in the morning, but at this point, I couldn't care less, and neither could he, his little moans of "Bobby, god, _yes_," an unsolicited testimonial. I grope for his seatbelt, releasing it, and then yank his t-shirt up so I can get my hands on bare skin, stroking, petting, drawn to his nipples, the memory of his reaction the night before making me hard. I duck my head, and he arches his back, making it easier for me to reach them, his groan as I suck first the right one, then the left, sounding like it came from the soles of his feet.

"Bobby, please," he begs, panting, his fingers threaded into my hair at the back of my head, urging me down, gently, insistently. I resist, pulling back so I can look him in the eye. We're both breathing hard, and much as I want him, I'm damned if I'm gonna let the first time I have sex with another man in fifteen years be in the front seat of a van in the middle of downtown San Diego. Besides, this is Darien. I want this to be special. I'm a romantic, I know, but I want this first time to be everything it can be.

"Not here, Fawkes," I tell him breathlessly, but not resisting when he seeks out my mouth with his own, letting him kiss me blind, deaf and dumb to anything but him.

Which is why I nearly jump out of my skin when the sharp rap of a patrolman's nightstick on the window of the driver's side door finally gets through the fog of lust that pervades the van.

"_Shit_," we exclaim, simultaneously.

I let my partner go, scrambling away from him as if I was some horny teenager whose date's father just walked in on me necking with his daughter. Fawkes tugs his t-shirt halfway back down, distractedly, as I roll down the window and blink against the brilliant beam of the flashlight that scorches my retinas. "What can I do for you, officer?" I ask in my best 'polite citizen' voice, trying to get my breathing under control.

"Try taking this somewhere more private, for starters," comes the dry suggestion. "Rent a room, why don't ya?"

Fawkes stifles a snicker, and I grin. "Good idea," I remark to our uniformed interloper, not doing much to conceal my amusement.

The flashlight gets lowered and I can see the ironic lift of the guy's eyebrow and he pulls his pen out of his breast pocket. "Maybe a citation for public indecency'll put a cork in the attitude, huh?" he suggests, obviously getting annoyed. 

"No need, sir," I struggle to keep the smirk out of my voice. "We were just going," I finish, relieved when the pen goes back where it came from. 

"More like just coming," is the muttered witticism as the cop slides the flashlight back into its belt loop next to the nightstick and gives me the evil eye. "I suggest you move along, gentlemen," he says more loudly, a peace officer doin' his duty and clearing the streets of riff-raff. 

"Yessir. Right away, sir," I say firmly, hoping he won't think I'm giving him lip. From his expression, it's pretty obvious he's wondering, but he writes it off to hormones, and heads back to his squad car with only one backwards look.

I start up the van and put her into gear, pulling away from the curb after our friendly neighborhood cop has departed for greener pastures, Fawkes snickering with amusement.

"I love a man in uniform," he snarks as I pull into the light, late-night traffic, and edges across the bench seat towards me.

"Yeah, right," I snark back. "With your history? Uniforms to you are like red-flagging a bull."

"What can I say? I like to live dangerously," he grins at me as he reaches out a hand and runs his fingers down the nape of my neck, and the feeling is Incredible. A light touch feathering the hair at the back of my head, reminding me I meant to get it cut this week. He's petting me like a cat, the fingers warm and gentle, playing with my hair as he sits there watching me drive, this dazed little smile on his face. "I love your hair," he announces, and I have to shoot him a look.

"You tryin' to be funny?" I ask, cautiously, wondering if Darien-the-tease is making a reappearance.

He blinks, startled, then blushes slightly, embarrassed. "Seriously, Hobbes. You have any idea how long I've wanted to get my hands on it? I love it when it grows out, and does this little curl at the back," he adds, coiling a short strand of my hair around his fingers carefully. "It's soft," he goes on, just grooving on touching me, not really looking at me, but I feel as if I'm the only thing in his universe at the moment, and it blows me away.

I'm so caught up in that touch I can't even bring myself to demand that he belt himself back in. Besides we're almost to his place, so there's not much point. Less than five minutes later, I pull up to his curb and park. His neighborhood isn't one of the greatest, but at this hour, it's pretty quiet. The street lamp in front of his building has burned out, no big surprise there, and the darkness is like velvet, covering us. The quiet as he waits for me to say something is breathless and a little tense. 

He's still playing with my hair, and the feelings it triggers are amazing; tender, sweet, gentle. I can't even remember the last time someone touched me with this much feeling. And it isn't even sexual. Exactly. "Bobby?" he asks at last, shaking me out of the half trance his touch has put me under.

"Huh?" I grunt, distracted.

"You wanna come up? Maybe have a beer?" 

Maybe fuck me senseless, is more like it, I think. "Yeah," I agree after a second, a second that encompasses a whole paradigm shift in my life, in my expectations, in my past. In my future. It's been a long time since I've been with another guy. Long enough to make me wonder if I'm kidding myself about what I feel, here. Only, I've never really felt anything like this before. Not even with Viv. And it's too fragile and way too important to me to pretend it isn't happening. "Yeah, I'll come up, I guess," I repeat, knowing I've just taken a long walk down the company pier with those words.

His smile, what I can see of it in the gloom, flashes lighter in the dim light, and he opens his door and climbs out, waiting for me as I do the same and walk around the front of the van to join him. He drapes an arm over my shoulder the way he's been known to do in the past, when I didn't think anything of it, and the warmth of his lanky body against my side is a nice contrast to the cool October air. 

Neither of us says anything as we walk up the three fights of stairs to his floor, and he doesn't take his arm off me as he fishes in a pants pocket for his keys, letting us into his place. He lets me walk through the door first, finally letting his arm slide off my shoulders, and the chill his absence leaves behind is a surprise. He walks past me to his kitchen and opens the fridge, fishing around among the take out containers for the brew. 

"Corona, right?" he asks, peering over his shoulder at me and I nod, taking the long neck when he hands it to me.

He gets a local microbrew for himself, and it suddenly occurs to me that he has my beer in his fridge. He knows my preferences and went and laid in a supply. Damn. I try to divert myself from the shivery feeling in my belly by twisting off the cap and taking a long pull from the bottle, settling a hip against one of the bar stools at his counter. Why that little factoid is freaking me out, I don't know. Maybe it's cuz it says 'relationship' in a way I've sorta forgotten how to handle. I dunno. Maybe I'm just a head case. Yeah, that's a given, I know, but still

He settles onto the stool next to me and takes a swallow of his own beer. It's not like either of us really need anything more to drink, but it covers the sudden awkwardness of the silence. 

"So." I say, staring into the mouth of my bottle, trying not to think too much. It's an uphill battle for me, the tendency being to over-analyze everything, try to work out all the angles, whatever.

Darien glances over at me, a little frown between his eyes. "How 'bout those Padres," he responds, his sudden punk sarcasm breaking the awkwardness between us like shattered glass. I laugh, trying not to choke on the mouthful of beer I just took.

"You gotta start workin' on your pick-up lines," I snicker, wiping the dribble of beer off my chin.

"No, I don't," he grins back at me, leaning towards me to kiss me lightly on the mouth. "I got what I want."

"Oh, you do, do you?" I cock a sarcastic eyebrow at him.

"I do, yeah," he says, his smirk going all soft and dreamy, and I just stare at his mouth, trying to decide what to do about the ache in my groin and the bad case of nerves.

"Nuh," I grunt, master of conversation that I am. You'd never know that I actually aced CTS back in the day, what with my current case of sweaty palms and the flutter in my chest where my heart is trying to batter through my ribs. "Then you got questionable taste, my friend," I manage, my voice strange-sounding even to me.

His expression goes fierce on me without warning. "Stop it," he demands, setting down his bottle with a sharp clank on the stone counter. "Just don't."

"Don't what?" I ask, startled at the pain in his eyes. "What's wrong?"

"You. _You_ are wrong. There's not a damn thing that's questionable about my tastes. You are everything I want, everything I need, and goddammit, don't ever cut yourself down like that to me again. Ever. Got it?" He stares at me and I can't look away, the ferocity of his glare and the intensity of his feelings totally unmistakable. 

As unmistakable as the pain in his expression. How the hell have I managed to hurt him now, I wonder, feeling like I've taken a wrong turn somewhere. "Wha -" I start, only to have him reach out and grab me by the shoulders and drag me off my stool to stand between his thighs so he can kiss me harder than I've ever been kissed in my life. His arms fold around me, one hand tangled in my hair, the other around my waist, fingers clutching at the back of my shirt to sneak their way under fabric to rest warm against bare skin. I think it's that, even more than his mouth on mine, his tongue along my own, his breath drawing mine out of my lungs, that sends me off the end of that company pier into deep water. I know this is a mistake, but I don't care, anymore. What ever it costs me, I think I may just survive.

Survive.

With a kiss like the one Darien is laying on me, maybe not.

Fuck.

I go commando on his ass, and grab him by the hair, kissing him back with every bit as much passion as he just revealed. Jeeze. Okay, I am definitely off the deep end, here. But if I'm gonna throw away a lifetime of caution, ignore seventeen years of experience, then this is the one I'm gonna do it for. 

Fuck.

I'm in love. I'm in love with my _partner_. _FUCK_! 

I mean, I know I love him. Have for a long time, now, relatively speaking. It's only the second time I can honestly say that about a partner. Why the idea that I'm _in_ love with him is such a shock, I don't know. I come up for air, eyeing Darien's dazed face, his dark eyes lit with passion. For me. _His_ partner. Bobby Hobbes. The one who put the 'lunatic' in lunatic fringe. What the hell are we _doing_?

"Oh, no you don't," Fawkes says and picks up where he left off, only this time, he's gentle, mouth and hands all over me as he returns the earlier favor and decorates my throat with hickies of my own.

"Don't what?" I ask, barely able to manage the words as sensory overload becomes a real possibility. It's like every nerve-ending in my body has migrated to whatever patch of skin he's touching at any given moment and my brain is short-circuiting.

"Don't start freaking out on me again," he whispers in my ear and follows it up with a soft nip to the lobe. "Let me love you," he adds for good measure, moving to pull my shirt up over my head. I don't resist him as he takes it off, dropping it on the floor and ducking his head to try my nipples the way I did his, earlier.

__

Let me love you.

He's asking for permission? Darien the punk is _asking_? Not just taking what he wants like the thief he is? Because I couldn't stop him right now. He could take me anywhere, any way he wanted, and I wouldn't stop him. And he knows it.

Was. The thief he _was_.

Hell, yeah. _Was_. My partner is growing up. And what we have is every bit as important to him as it is to me. So he's asking. Because he wants it to be a choice neither of is gonna regret. And loving him may kill me, but what a way to go. "Yes," I say, answering the question he didn't ask in words, the one he's still asking with the flick of his tongue across my chest. "Fawkes," I manage, my voice strangled.

"Yeah, Hobbesy?" comes the whisper, warm lips brushing skin, the wet heat of his tongue leaving chill trails behind. My nipple tightens as he moves on, and I groan

.

"Tell me, Hobbes. Tell me what you want." I can hear the smile in his voice, even though his face is pressed against my chest. I weave my hands into his hair again, loving the spiky crispness of it, the goo he uses to make it stand up no match for my touch. The little punk is teasing me again. He's gonna make me beg. "Goddammit, Fawkes," I curse him desperately, knowing I will, if that's what it takes.

Only he doesn't make me. I feel his hands on my belt, fumbling it loose, and the warmth of his hands inside the waist of my pants and the heat of his mouth on my chest nearly makes me lose it right there. My hips jerk forward as he slides a hand into my boxers and touches me for the first time. I moan as he raises his head to watch me, his lips parted, lightly swollen and pink from the kissing we've been doing. 

His fingers wrap around me, and the damn clothes are getting in the way and I want him. Now. Want him like I haven't wanted anyone in years. "Fawkes, _please_," I croak, reaching to draw him closer, pulling his head down so I can kiss him as I involuntarily thrust against his hand on me, beyond control, beyond anything, except the need for release. And he lets me go, dammit! My breath catches in my throat, and I want to wail my frustration, only he doesn't give me the chance, instead, sliding off his stool and kneeling in front of me, shoving my pants and boxers down my hips to tangle around my calves as his arms wrap around my waist and he takes me into his mouth. And oh, god, it's been so long since I've wanted anything the way I want this. He knows it, too, and knows I'm not gonna last long at this rate, so he doesn't even try to slow me down, instead humming and licking his way down my cock, nuzzling my balls and then sucking me down, deep-throating me in a single gulp. I lose it right then and there, and grab handfuls of his hair, pounding against him, into him mindlessly, feeling his breathing timed to my moves, his tongue hot along the base of my shaft. "Jesus!" I howl in the same strangled grunt that's replaced my voice as I come. He swallows, and the feeling is indescribable as the muscles of his throat tighten along me. I come so hard I can't breathe, can't stand, can't fall, come until I reach orbit. I think maybe this is heaven, and I just died. And he holds me up, supports me as I hit reentry, making my landing soft. He's slow to let me go, which is fine with me, cuz I'm gasping for air like a landed fish, my knees wobbling, and I hold onto his shoulders, using him to steady myself. 

He finally lets me slide out of his mouth, trailing little kisses along my belly below the navel. I take advantage of the fact I'm holding onto him to toe off my boots and step out of my pants before I raise him to his feet and kiss him. "Get out of the damned clothes, Fawkes," I order him, my voice raspy, still not quite back to normal. 

He grins down at me and strips in world record time. "Race ya," he says, and sprints for his bed, me right behind him. I tackle him and knock him onto the mattress, rolling him onto his back and pinning his wrists in my grip so I can kiss him the way he did me. He laughs up at me, his eyes wide and happier than I think I've ever seen him. I just lie there on top of him, feeling the rapid rise and fall of his chest under mine, feeling the beat of his heart against mine, watching him, knowing that I've just fallen into something deeper than I ever knew existed. I thought, after Viv, that I knew what love was, what it was like to love someone. And maybe I did, sort of. But I guess I never really knew what it felt like to _be_ loved. Because what I see in Fawkes' face is the real deal. And it's the same look I've been seeing in his eyes for a year or more. Only I never figured out what it meant. And maybe, he hadn't either, till recently. Jesus. "Fawkes" I say softly, letting him go, the wild impulse to control gone. In its place is something that makes my throat tighten with emotion, and I rest my weight on my elbows, cupping his face in one hand, stroking his eyebrow with my thumb. "Darien, I love you," I say the words. And mean them with every cell in my body. 

His widen even more, dark in the faint light from the overhead in his kitchen. Hesitant, suddenly shy. He swallows, and the liquid sheen in his eyes tells me he's feelin' it too. This thing between us. I wonder if this is what Claire sees when she looks at us. The wariness, the hostility, the distance is gone when we're with each other. Fawkes is open with me, to me, like he isn't with anyone else. And I'm the same with him. I can't help wondering if it's this obvious to everyone else around us.

"Bobby. God, do you know how much I've needed to hear you say that?" he asks softly, blinking, and I see a tear trickle unheeded down his cheek and into the wayward curl of brown hair near his ear. I brush it away then kiss him lightly on the mouth. "Say it again," he requests, his smile watery but as intense as I've ever seen. 

"How 'bout I show you, partner?" I grin back at him, drinking in the look in his eyes, the smile in them, the way his mouth curves. The welcome, the invitation, is absolute. 

"Be my guest, partner," he chuckles, the subtle emphasis on the word making me grin back at him. Partner. The word that means Bobby Hobbes isn't alone, any more.

__

Finis


End file.
